


Not Yet Ready

by Elisheva_Nadir



Category: Almost Human
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisheva_Nadir/pseuds/Elisheva_Nadir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John!" Délia calls and a slow grin is spreading along her lips... "John, it's been ages. What happened to you?" John feels his brow furrow and he rubs a hand over the days worth of stubble along his jaw... "I got shot," John says grimly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Yet Ready

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I let the Karl Urban bug bite me too (and the show's not even out yet, somehow I'm not even sorry). But mostly I thought that this would be a good way to try my hand at a style I don't normally do (read: I somehow always go for the overly dramatic Gothic style and that's a bit shit for telling modern stories). I've read a couple of very successful stream of conscious, third person, present tense stories and wanted to give it a go (especially right now when nothing's quite canon and I can mess with things). So this was the result.

             John hasn't seen Délia since before the accident but seeing her now seems to make the days in between then and now bleed together until they're just a vague memory. A composition paired down to a rather full picture but still fleeting. A flush of desire blooms through him and it seems rather difficult to try and avoid her.

            "John!" Délia calls and a slow grin is spreading along her lips. It's the one she wears after a particularly good climax or when he's done something clever with his tongue. "John, it's been ages. What happened to you?" John feels his brow furrow and he rubs a hand over the days worth of stubble along his jaw. He knows Délia is giving him a way out. A way to avoid their old relationship and to skip over the unnecessary conversation about his accident. It made the papers. Délia's an escort; not an idiot. She would have read about it.

            "I got shot," John says grimly, the tightening of his fist making the grocery bag he's carrying rattle. Délia's smile turns rueful and she shifts a bit closer. A slight wind blows her long hair over her shoulder and John can smell the expensive perfume she wears, something musky and yet a hint of citrus, and under that is the smell of coconut oil. Or maybe he's imagining it. Remembering all of the other times he's buried his face into her hair and thought he could die happy while their bodies were still entwined, sweat not yet cooling and his cock slowly softening inside of her.

            "You still drink bourbon?" Délia asks, inching a bit closer, unsure if their prolonged absence from each other will allow for them to be able to pick up where they left off.

            "Only if it's Makers Mark," John says, teasing even though the frown he's been sporting never lifts from his face. He knows Délia hates Makers. He, strangely, isn't so found of that particular bourbon either. John blames Délia's influence for that.

            "You've got a funny way of saying Jim Beam, you know," Délia says and just like that the tension about where they stand is gone and John finds the comfortable warmth of a beautiful woman at his side once more. He's missed this. Missed Délia breezing in and out of his life. Sometimes, before the accident, he used to wish that she'd stick around a bit more but their relationship has always been at her convenience.

            "My place isn't too far away," Délia says and she licks her lips slightly as her eyes drop briefly to stare at his own. Her eyes flutter, the deep brown hesitantly meeting hazel, as if checking to make sure she's got this right. That she's not overstepping herself.

            "About time you cooked for me," John says, finally breaking enough to let out a small smile.

            "I don't think dialing for take-out is considered cooking," Délia says with a put-upon primness. John has neither the time nor patience to cook and Délia is the same. He likes that about her and appreciates all of the tiny posh places that she would find to order from in order to break the monotony of pizza, vaguely-Asian noodle dishes, and something fried. He still hasn't come around to loving subs quite the way Délia does but likes the occasional fancy sandwich.

 

            Délia's place is what he'd expect of a successful escort. A restored brownstone just outside of the heart of the city, neighbors with other successful people—lawyers and doctors and maybe a handful of the banker types but those are much rarer now.

            "Just a splash of water," Délia tells him, handing over a tumbler with an inch's worth of amber liquid. She has her own glass and is consulting her wall unit. Where some people might have friends, relatives and a handful of other important utility numbers in their contact lists, Délia has almost nothing but take-out numbers and a few numbers from restaurants that will only do take-out for Délia.

            "Too many choices?" John asks from the barstool he's sitting on. The kitchen is all dark pine flooring, with grey-black marble countertops and cherry cabinetry. Something out of a catalogue really but there are instances of personal touches. A glass vase full of partly-bent beer caps, dishes from breakfast lying in the strainer, old reminders stuck to the fridge with magnets, a paper calendar with nearly illegible notes written in the tiny squares, and a stack of mail by the toaster.

            "I'm ordering from Castilia's," Délia says in answer and starts punching in her order. John is slightly flattered that she's remembered—or maybe just confidant enough—that he likes the eggplant parmesan with penne. She tells him that he doesn't have a choice and he's trying the caprese they make with buffalo mozzarella. John reminds Délia that he doesn't like out-of-season tomatoes but Délia rolls her eyes and takes his hand that isn't holding the bourbon and drags him to the living room.        

            The living room looks more lived in. The furniture is all heavy looking and the largest piece is an honest-to-God brown, leather, Chesterfield couch. There's a spot that looks just a tiny bit more worn than the other parts of the couch, her favorite spot obviously. Délia draws John down onto the couch, not letting him take one of the wingbacks or the club chair. She fusses a bit with a couple of afghans that were left on the couch but otherwise she curls up towards him, elbow perched on the backrest of the couch so she can prop her head up with her hand.

            "Where have you been?" Délia murmurs as if she's been having a conversation without him and was simply musing out loud.

            "You know I don't talk shop," John says, staring down at his glass. Délia doesn't talk shop either. The less he knows about her clients the happier he is. The fact that she never brings him to the penthouse she uses when she works gives him a small amount of satisfaction.

            "Seen any good movies then?" John gives a huff laughter and they settle into an easy back-and-forth until their food arrives. They eat in the kitchen at the farm house style table, side-by-side and John finds that he hasn't completely forgotten how to flirt even if he still feels hesitant about touching Délia. By the end of their meal Délia is pressed against his side and is bemoaning her choice of food, telling John it's his fault for letting her order so much.

            They stash their leftovers in the fridge and John can't help the quick strum of pleasure that passes over him as he realizes Délia put their dessert away. He knows it doesn't have to mean sex but they would always order dessert and have it after their bedroom antics or in the morning for breakfast. But that was before his accident and it's been so long that maybe Délia just wants a midnight snack and wasn't thinking of fonder times.

            "You thinking about moving in there?" Délia asks and ushers him away from the open fridge and back to the living room where they curl against each other on the couch. It's such a comfort to have Délia's long and rather lush frame against his. Sometimes John can't quite believe that he ever caught Délia's eye. During one rather drunken night they'd confessed to each other what turned them on. John was unoriginal and liked a good smile and great ass. He wasn't really sure if he had a preference for hair color or length but nothing melted his heart quicker than a set of gray-green eyes. And from past girlfriends it seemed he was only able to attract shorter women or maybe that really _was_ a preference. Délia liked them tall as hell—her own words—with strong hands and wide shoulders. Considering that there was only a scant three inches separating their height John had joked with her that night that it must have been his cologne and charming smile that got her. Délia hadn't denied it and a handful of times after that night he'd caught her subtly smelling his t-shirt and all but purring.

            "God, you still smell so good," Délia says and buries her nose into the side of his neck. John closes his eyes and enjoys the slightly weightless feeling that comes from having three glasses of bourbon. "Why do you always smell so good?" John hears Délia inhale and he sighs at the first gentle pressure of her lips against his skin. It feels good, familiar, and most of all it makes John ache for something he hasn't let himself have in a while.

            "Clean bill of health?" John asks.

            "Yes. And you?"

            "Same," John says.

            "Contraceptives?" John grunts in response at first as Délia lowers her mouth enough to gently rake her teeth against the top of his shoulder.

            "Injection. Mandatory now. Just," John pauses, moaning as Délia brings up her hand to run on the inside of his thigh. So close but not close enough. "Just had it last month." John cups himself through his jeans, adjusting himself and wishing he was out of his pants all ready.

            "Same," Délia says a bit breathlessly and moves enough so that she can straddle his lap so she can properly kiss him. John loves the way she runs her hands through his hair and that she doesn't mind the way his hands can't seem to ever stop massaging her ass. Or that bit of space between buttock and thigh. If John was honest with himself he also really loved women with great thighs. He loves that softness and pliant flesh that he can manipulate, hold on to during sex and when he's feeling adventurous he loves the feel against the sides of his face when his mouth is busy doing other things.

            "Bedroom?" Délia asks, breaking away long enough so she can stare down at him, her bottom lip fuller and reddened from kissing.

            "Near read my mind," John says and doesn't mind that Délia pushes his hands away when he tries to pick her up. He forgets that she doesn't like to be carried but that's fine because he's not sure if he's steady enough on his feet to walk and carry her at the same time.

 

            They're like teenagers, hands running over and under clothes, shedding them off as they go until John is standing barefoot in only his half undone pants and Délia has managed to successfully strip all the way down to just her underwear. John takes a moment to reacquaint himself with the sight of Délia's breasts and is pleased to know that some things just don't change.

            It's when they surge back together just at the edge of the bed, mouths devouring each other, arms pulling closer so that it's skin against skin that their legs knock together and Délia pulls back abruptly, inhaling sharply in protest as her knee connects all too solidly with metal.

            John pulls away, taking a full step back and feels anger and embarrassment and that all too familiar sensation of resentment. He hasn't let himself feel pity in a long time now, not after he decided that 'fair' is a subjective word and should be struck from the dictionary and human lexicon all together. But he still lets himself feel anger because he doesn't want to forget and suddenly he can't bear the thought of Délia seeing his leg. His fingers itch to wrap around the medicine bottle in his jacket pocket but even though it's Délia and she knows all of his messy details and he hers, John can't bring himself to pop a pill in front of her.

            "We don't have to,"

            "I don't _need_ ," John cuts himself off, realizing that he's clenching his fists at his sides and breathing a little too hard and that Délia had jerked back at his tone. "I don't need you to feel sorry for me," John says quieter, calmer, but still low and dangerous. As if he's spoiling for a fight and a chance to yell.

            Délia sits down hard on the bed, her breasts bouncing with the movement but the sight of Délia all but naked isn't as inviting anymore. It reminds John of what he used to have, of what he doesn't have now.

            "John," Délia says levelly, gaze focused on his and deadly serious. "I wouldn't have invited you here if I felt sorry for you. I wouldn't be agreeing to sex because to be honest I'm actually feeling a bit selfish," John looks away briefly, knowing that this relationship has always panned out so that he answers when she calls and it's worked out just fine with that understanding, "I figured you'd had time to adjust and that maybe we could start something up again. Because I miss this. I miss having you." John clenches his teeth together and feels angry. He's not certain exactly what he's angry at but he knows the sensation well. It's a malaise that he's been carrying with him for a while and it feels unsettling to be without it.

            "What do you want me to say?" John asks. "Sorry I can't cope? Sorry that I," John cuts himself off once more. He's done this thing. Done the whole 'talk about feelings' bullshit and he's fucking over it. He's got his way of dealing with it and if it doesn't happen to meet other people's expectations then they can choke.

            Délia takes a deep breath and rubs her hands over her face. A small part of him knows that Délia is trying to be understanding. That she's trying to respect the fact that he might say no, no more. That same small part of him doesn't want this to be over though. Not when things had been so uncomplicated before. They went about their respective lives and converged together when it suited and that was it. No mess, no fuss, no petty jealousy and broken promises.

            "Do you want to have sex with me?" Délia asks, looking up at John, her hands clasped together and coming to rest between her knees. "Because John, I am not going to string myself along with your demons. You're either ready to move forward or you're not. So choose right now. Sex or no sex."

            John can still feel that his face is flush, with desire, with embarrassment, with too many things he'd rather not think about. He's wanted this for a while. Wanted the feel of someone in bed next to him instead of empty space. He's missed the creature comforts of a good lay and while he knows, he knows what keeps him from having this again he can't bring himself to say it let alone think on it with purpose. He only ever vaguely pursues those thoughts when he's just waking up and then he can just wave it away as dreams.

            "I do want this. I want to have sex with you." A relieved look comes across Délia's face even with the tension of 'but' hanging in the air. It doesn't come.

            "Good," Délia says and stands up. Her hands go to the waistband of his pants but John stops her. No. He wants to control this. He's always liked Délia's take charge attitude during sex and he certainly has loved the benefits of it but not now. Not when he's barely sure he can stand to have her see his leg.

            "Sit against the headboard," John says and Délia does. She moves back and slides across the bed until she's seated against the headboard. She looks relaxed and all though she's not quite smiling, she looks content.

            John doesn't give himself time to think about it. He just shoves his pants and boxers down all at once, stepping out of them and crawling on the bed. They've never been finicky about lighting when it comes to their rendezvous but John wishes that the room was darker, that the seam where flesh meets bionic limb isn't quite as obvious. He wishes that the prosthetic was more flesh toned instead of silvery and he hopes that it isn't too cold against Délia's skin.

            John grabs Délia's closest ankle and pulls her down until she's reclined on the bed, the scrap of fabric that was masquarading as her underwear comes off easily, and there's only the briefest of pauses as John looks up at Délia to make sure she's all right before he buries his face between her legs. At first he just rubs his cheek against the inside of her thigh, hands caressing the outside. He thinks that she has the softest skin he's ever felt and as much as he loves the feel of her under his fingertips he loves the press of his lips against her more.

            John brushes light kisses against her skin, kisses that become firmer, become open mouthed and then he's pressing his lips against her center, his tongue swiping along the creases of her until he uses his fingers to open her. Délia hums for him at first, happy, content little sounds that turn to sighs and then moans. Her hands stay at her sides for a while but John laves tongue and fingers against her clit, alternating between the two and Délia's hands are carding through his hair, roaming down to his shoulders and back again.

            Délia's never been a talker and John is grateful for this even if most of the things she would say would be muffled to him. He's happy to gently dig his fingers into her thighs and shift until he's as close to her as he can get, his tongue slipping inside of her. John knows that he's not terribly gifted at this but Délia has always appreciated his efforts and John's learned to follow the gentle roll of her body. To wrap his arms around her and hold her firm as her hips arch and her legs tighten around him and then become gentle as she remembers not to hurt him. John loves those moments the best, when Délia forgets not to smother him and air is precious for those few seconds and she lets out an especially long moan, hands tugging in his hair.

            "Okay John," Délia says, pushing at his shoulders gently. "It's starting," Whatever Délia says is cut off as John wraps his lips around her clit as well as he can and gently sucks, his tongue brushing along the tiny bit of oversensitive skin. Délia lets out a startled cry that's more sharp intake of air than anything else. John has trouble not smiling, feeling proud of that but he likes the noises she makes when he has two fingers inside of her, gently but insistently rubbing against that one spot. It had taken several attempts at this and a bit of researching—not that John would admit to it—before he found that drawing his fingers inside of her in a running motion achieved better results than simply thrusting his fingers repeatedly into her. It kept his arm from tiring and he could keep lavishing attention on her clit until she was twisting away from him, her body softly clenching against him at first until she calls out into her pillow and the spasms that he feels become rhythmic and gripping.

            John has his face pressed into her thigh, his fingers still inside of her, helping her ride out her orgasm and twisting insude of her until she grasps his wrist and pushes him softly away. They lay there panting and John finally feels the ache in his cock, realizes that he's been grinding himself into the mattress to relieve the pressure and that all he wants is to feel Délia surrounding him. He wants that impossibly soft velvet tightness around his cock, to feel the rush of her body meeting his.

            "Do you still want,"

            "Yes," John says a bit too quickly, maybe a little too desperately. Yes he really does want this. He wants the cradle of her thighs around his hips and to feel her hands grasping his back and the sway of her breasts against his chest. John crawls up her body until he's hovering over her, wondering if he should kiss her. Suddenly he can't remember if that’s something they did. If she only kisses him as foreplay or if she kisses him during sex. He wants to kiss her.

            John goes to wipe his mouth against his arm but Délia stops him, using her own hand to take away some of the wetness coating the bottom half of his face and pulls him in for a kiss. They both groan when John slips his tongue inside of her mouth. She tastes like bourbon and pesto but mostly bourbon and it's sweet against his tongue.

            Délia reaches down and her fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him until he's so hard that he almost can't stand the swipe of the pad of her thumb over the tip of his dick. As much as John likes Délia's talented hands he's not sure if he'll have the energy to do much more if he spends himself now.

            "Cut that out," John moans, he doesn't pout, that's not him but Délia is grinning from ear to ear as if he has pouted. John is frowning again but Délia doesn't care, she's helping guide his cock inside of her and if John could roll like a wave the way Délia does when he finally has his hips flush against hers, he'd never stop. If this was before the accident Délia would tease John that he feels so good sliding in because he has a slight bend to his dick. John always denies this while thrusting into her just for good measure but he knows it's partially true. Délia doesn't tease him now and suddenly he can't stand the silence or the way her brown eyes are searching his face.

            John pushes his face into the pillow by her head, his left arm holding him up as he begins to gently thrust. It's easier just to focus on sensations this way. The ticklish feeling of his chest hair brushing against her skin, the light scratching of Délia's blunt nails along his back, the blessed heat of her wrapped around his dick. It's enough to drown out all other thoughts.

            Délia, John remembers, is very tactile and she likes to run her hands over every inch of him that she can. She likes kneading his muscles and running her feet along his calves, likes using her hands to urge him to thrust harder into her. John is almost too far gone to catch the slight hesitation as her left foot slides from just below his ass down to his ankle. It's his right leg he realizes belatedly and it takes his brain a few deep thrusts later to make the connection. A sudden burst of anger makes John thrust hard and lift his head from the pillow. His eyes are unfocused and while he can see Délia's face—a mixture of confusion and pleasure—he sees nothing. John prefers that. Prefers feeling the hot slide of his cock thrusting and retreating.

            But that burst of anger doesn't go away, he can feel it churning hotter inside of him and John is no longer concerned with rhythm or finesse or if Délia wants to try to draw this out for an hour. He fucks into her. One hand moving to draw her leg up, tilting her hips so that he repeatedly hits that one spot, and the other holding on to the headboard so he can balance himself against the frantic movements of his hips.

            Délia moans beneath him, hands running up his torso and then back down, up once more, fingers suddenly digging into his arms as she fights to stay at a perfect angle to meet John's furious thrusts. He hasn't fucked someone with this sort of mindless determination in… he can't remember because John's world is narrowing quickly, so quickly. There's the sound of flesh against flesh, his harsh breaths, Délia's panting, the creaking of the bed, the feel of soft flesh now sweaty with exertion.

            Délia tenses so hard that John grits his teeth through the tightening of her softness and he fucks her through her orgasm. He can't stop. Not even as Délia goes from being as taught as a bow string to some rolling and writhing creature. John can feel her clenching tightly around his cock, knows that she must feel as if a wave of heat has spread from where they're joined up and out through body until she can feel it from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. The way she softly moans his name and tips her head back, legs moving to wrap about his hips, is obscene. For a moment John is no longer a part of the equation for Délia and she is merely basking in the sensation of her climax.

            Frustration wells inside John and he feels it hot and prickly behind his eyes and through his nose. He wants to be there with Délia. Wants to feel the scalding rush of orgasm as his synapses seemingly explode, leaving stars behind his eyes. John pitches forward, burying his face into the crook of Délia's neck, his right hand catching Délia's left, their fingers lacing together so that their palms are locked together. He wants to come. He wants to come right now and his hips snap back and forth until he can barely keep up the brutal pace and just stops.

            Breathing harshly, John turns his face away from Délia's and feels the slight tremor in his arms from trying to keep himself propped up for so long. Délia has gone completely still under him and for a heart stopping moment John wants to vault himself away from the bed and away from Délia. He's done this number before, been too tired or too drunk to finish and it's never bothered him before. But with his blood boiling and his heartbeat all but pounding out through his dick, John can't bear the idea of not coming. Worse is that John knows Délia _knows_. She understands and it's almost more humiliating than having whiskey dick when you really want to impress a woman.

            Instead of focusing on the way Délia is wrapped around him he's intent on the near pity he swears emanates from her. John doesn't want to think about Délia's work or her clients, doesn't want to think about how she might be comparing him to some poor slob that has problems even therapy won't help. In a harsh bark of laughter, John realizes the irony of sleeping with an escort. He's her _John_.

            "John," Délia whispers and he feels her hand, still clasped with his, flex until he lets her go. "I want to be on top." John is still breathing heavily and he wants to protest, he doesn't get to be on top often with her, but the ease in which Délia pushes him to lie on his back is telling enough.

            John stares up at the ceiling as Délia props his legs up so that his thighs will cradle her back as she straddles him. He shouldn't feel the sensations of her steady hands on the _leg_ but he does and he glares up at the ceiling. The thoughts he has are ones that he usually suppresses with that magical little bottle in his coat pocket but it's not within reach and Délia is sliding over him, around him, she is flush against him and John breathes a sigh of relief.

            "We haven't tried for three in a while," Délia says nonchalantly, beginning to slowly rise up and then back down. She has her finger tips lightly pressing into his chest as her head tips back and her hair falls across his bent knees. It tickles, a sharp contrast to the pleasure of having Délia wrapped around him.

            "Didn't want to get your hopes up," John says gruffly and his hands rise to rest at her hips, minutely helping her. The motion isn't so much up and down as forward and up and then down. "Usually you're too sensitive to try coming a third time." Délia just tilts her head down to look at him and smiles. She moves so that she can lay her hands flat against his chest, fingers curling just enough so that her nails lightly rake against him.

            "Maybe I miss this," Délia says, her rocking becoming more insistent and less languid. Before she was only teasing herself, basking in the afterglow of her orgasm and happy to touch and be touched.

            "Maybe," John repeats. He doesn't agree, he's not sure he does anyway. He's never presumed to know what Délia thinks or why she keeps him around. For a time he was just happy she did. And after that he was happy to just to keep things as uncomplicated as possible.

            "I swear you've gotten bigger," Délia nearly moans, head dipping down so that her chin is almost tucked against her collarbone. John can only grunt back in response as Délia almost slams back down on him. He's so hard now that he wants to tell Délia she can probably take his pulse with his cock but the words won't form and John is torn between wanting to stay at that sweet knife blade edge of almost orgasm and coming so hard that his vision blacks out and he loses time.

            Délia chooses for him and begins to thrust down in earnest, clutching his wrists to steady herself while his hands, still clutching her hips, help guide her movements. His own hips are rising up to meet her but he's either not quick enough or can't sync with her because Délia topples forward. Her arms are cradled around his head and her face his pressed into the crook of his neck. If John could spare the thought, he'd relish the way her breasts are crushed against his chest but his world has narrowed back down to sensations in his groin. Everything is tight again and hot. He's beginning to feel raw and his breaths are becoming more and more ragged. Délia has changed her angle just enough so that every time she thrusts, her clit brushes against John and John can feel the way her body flutters about him.

            "Harder," John grunts and Délia happily complies. She groans in approval as John buries one hand into the thickness of her hair and the other hand firmly grabs her ass. He's close now. He digs his heels into the mattress, one hand tugging at Délia's hair and the other kneading.

            "John," Is all Délia says as she slams down onto him repeatedly. There's no grace now. No skill. They're both so close that John is bucking up into her, rising up to meet her as quickly as he can. One of his feet slip and they fight to maintain the punishing pace. Délia is wrapped so tightly about him that he barely notices when they tumble to their sides. It doesn't stop them though. John's arms are around her now, clutching her to him, and he's kissing every piece of skin that he can reach. He's almost there. He wants this. He wants this with her.

            "Now, now, now," John chants and he's breathing so harshly that it barely comes out in words because, oh god, he's on fire and he slams into Délia two, three, four times and he's coming. His hips jerk erratically and he's crying out wordlessly, he swears that he can feel the electric jolt of pleasure all the way up his spine as he spills inside of Délia. She's there seconds later, screaming her release against his mouth and holding him fiercely and John hates and loves that the clenching and unclenching of her inner muscles around him prolongs the way his dick twitches and jerks in release. It's almost too much, almost enough to hurt but John simply wraps himself tighter around Délia until he only faintly feels his fingertips pulsing with afterglow.  

            John's tired and yet not, his thoughts are coming back to him now and when he tenses so does Délia as if she can read that he wants to pull away, wants to leave immediately even if his bones would barely stand to keep him upright.

            "Stay. Sleep with me. Just for a bit," Délia whispers and it's the only invitation John needs because Délia is already on the cusp of full sleep so he sighs deeply and settles himself to sleep. Just for a bit.

*****

            John wakes to the sound of his phone ringing lightly. It's work he realizes blearily but it's his day off and he really can't be bothered. John almost falls back asleep except that he shifts just enough to feel… Délia. The thought rocks him like an explosion. She's there, in bed with him. He's in her house. It all comes flooding back and John swears to himself that he's carefully untangling his limbs from hers because he has to pee and doesn't want to wake her. It's not because he doesn't want to talk to her.

            Délia doesn't stir, not until John is pulling his sweater over his head and his phone begins ringing again. She opens sleepy eyes to stare at John and John stares right back, tugging his sweater into place. Eventually the ringing stops and John finds his other shoe. Délia doesn't say a word, not even as she begins to fully wake and her steady brown eyes track his movements. This should be familiar to both of them and yet John feels guilt, he feels anger but it's not the sudden rage he felt much earlier. It lingers inside of him, tilts his lips into a slight frown, pinches his brow, makes his fingers tingle and there is that edge of need.

            John is at the bedroom door, shoes in hand because he can't quite bear to have Délia watch him anyway, when he turns his head enough to give her a short nod. It's over. They're over. He can't go back to this. John realizes that this is something that he will miss and doesn't want ruined the memory of his time with Délia before the accident. Because that's the only way he can think. Before the accident and after and his happy memories, while certainly more in the before category than the after, are sadly few. He wants Délia to understand that he can't just pick up where they left off. He doesn't have it in him, not right now, maybe not for a long time.

            There might have been the beginnings of tears in Délia's eyes, opened wide and slightly glossy as her shoulders tensed as if holding back tremors. There might have been a burning sensation starting high on John's nose, between his eyes, the precursor to tears but it could also mean a sneeze. John is turning from Délia, walking away. His shoes, somewhere between the bedroom and the front door, are on his feet and his phone is ringing again.

            "What?" He barks in answer, knowing that it's Dorian. Knowing that he's going to leave his groceries at Délia's and that he's going to show up to whatever crime scene Dorian is at and he's going to look and smell like stale sex and he won't fucking care.  

            It is Dorian and he's giving directions to John, telling him that he'll pick him up in two blocks. John growls some sort of agreement to the too human robot and he cuts the connection with Dorian, phone back in his pocket before he feels something wet on his face. It's cold outside, not yet ready to be winter but enough that in the early morning hours a few snowflakes make an appearance. John doesn't ever remember snowflakes feeling hot against his skin or tasting of salt. But they do.    

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Just wanted to say as an after, thank you for reading, and honestly I can't wait for this show to premiere.


End file.
